American Horror Story: Headcanons
by imgoddamnpluckyremember
Summary: Sometimes I get the idea to write a little piece of character history in the form of a short experience or moment in time. The past is my favorite part of character development because everything that happened before builds them into the character we see before us today. These anecdotes are arranged by character and will always be ongoing.
1. Sister Mary Eunice: 1

_"Please, please you can't…" she begged._

_"Of course I can, silly. I just did," her own voice echoed back to her. But not her voice. A more confident one._

_"Please, you have to let me go."_

_"Why should I do that? Go ahead, make a convincing argument." It waited. "Go ahead, I'm listening." It waited still. Listening to her snivel and cry like a child. 'Give me a reason,' it thought, 'if you have one, that is. And perhaps I'll consider it.'_

_She couldn't come up with one. Instead she turned to prayer. It laughed a little too lightheartedly. "Stop now. Enough of that, you'll wear us both out." It reminded her of Sister Jude, but it was Godless._

_She always thought the devil was a little red man with horns, but it wasn't. It wasn't anything. _

_"Stop. Don't be frightened. I'm not going to hurt you, contrary to what you might think."_

_She quieted, that little voice inside, as if hesitating and waiting for what might come._

_"You know what I think?" it asked, with a voice like the purr of the lovely Persian her grandmother gave her as a girl. "I think…you have always been afraid, child. Afraid of what people will say, what they will do. Always the butt of someone's cruel joke. Am I wrong?"_

_"No," she whispered._

_"You wanted to be favored, didn't you? At least by someone, but your mother thought you were shy and a failure no matter how hard she pushed and shoved, you never wanted to be in that kind of a position. And your sister, the feminist, she was a lost cause. Your father thought you were dear, but simpering and a little immature. Am I wrong?" it asked again._

_"No," she said with less doubt._

_"You've spent your whole life trying to do good, to be good, and at the first temptation to rebel—I've seen you, don't be ashamed—you've resisted. What has good ever earned you? What has goodness ever done? You're shut up here with the filth of the earth. They throw their feces at you, spit on you. Because they know you're a scared little girl with no authority. Am I wrong yet?"_

_"No. No you're not."_

_"You've been praying for some kind of salvation all these years, Mary Eunice. All this time, you've been waiting. I'm here to set you free."_

_She shivered. "How?"_

_"Oh, don't worry about that. You just let me take care of it. But together, you and I. Well, let's just say big things are beginning to happen around here."_

_Its voice was so smooth, so persuasive. She'd heard the allure and charm of the Devil talked about in Mass every Sunday since she was small and stupid, but the Bible hadn't even come close. This was a voice that squashed fear and hopelessness and doubt, just as the voice of God had done for Moses and Noah and every last disciple. _

_"Let's be bad together, darling."_


	2. Moira O'Hara: 1

_The gunshot was still ringing in her ears, the mere sound of it jarred her awake. She sat up slowly, testing her limbs and digits one at a time for dexterity. The bedroom was dark, the bed a mess, she noted with distaste, but she pulled herself up, not altogether sure of what had happened. Moira ambled down the hallway bracing herself on the wall. The window at the far end was open, the California night seemed unusually chilly. _

_"Mrs. Langdon?" she called softly, looking down the hall as she closed and latched the window shut. She grabbed both of the linen drapes and made to shut them, but she noticed something moving down in the back yard. Squinting in the pale moonlight, she saw a shovelful of dirt fly._

_Mrs. Langdon was standing in the yard digging that hole as if her life depended on it. Moira watched for a moment—she and the woman had never seen eye to eye, really but this seemed unusual even for Constance. She couldn't take her eyes away. And she must have decided it was deep enough, because Mrs. Langdon hoisted herself up out of that hole and grabbed something in the yard, dragging it over._

_Not something, no. Someone. Someone with a collar of…_

_Lace._

_Her stomach turned to ice and fire all at the same time. It all came rushing back with full force and hit her so hard that she fell to her knees as if she'd been struck. _

_She was dead. She was dead, she was dead, she was dead._

_And Mrs. Langdon had shot her. Shot her in the eye. That explained the throbbing pain. She dry-heaved for a moment, trying to catch her bearings in vain, but she couldn't. She hauled herself down the stairs, stumbling down each one, her ankles twisting in her shoes. She scrambled through the foyer for the front door and jerked it open, racing off the front porch._

_Moira no sooner made it through the front gates than she noticed she was standing in the kitchen again. "No, no! Please, please I have to get out," she begged any god or devil that would listen. _

_"No one gets out," someone said. _

_She turned on her heel to see a young woman nearly her own age, bleeding from multiple stab wounds. Moira recoiled. "Who are you?"_

_"Dead. That's all that matters now, anyway. Do you have a name?"_

_"Moira," she whispered._

_The girl looked out the window watching as Constance shoveled the final loads of dirt back over the unmarked grave. "Not anymore. You're nobody now."_


	3. Lana Winters: 1

_"We're going skinny dipping. Wanna come?" _

_She'd been going to summer camp almost every summer cousin Beth had been going, mainly because she got jealous the first year that Beth went without her. The first year she went, Beth had to introduce her as "This is my cousin, she's the Chicken I told you about last year." Which admittedly didn't help her reputation. Beth was also three years older and that didn't help so much either._

_But here she was, fifteen now, Beth was 18 and a counselor. They'd finally stopped calling her 'Spring Chicken' and 'chicklet,' but she couldn't tell if that was because the joke had gotten old, or the fact that she, the late bloomer, had finally gotten boobs._

_At any rate, she was happy to be included._

_In the dark she tiptoed out of the cabin, watching for the squeaky floorboard as she followed her cousin toward the lake at a noiseless sprint. She'd always been fast. "The boys from the camp across the lake are coming too. Peter's little brother is coming," Beth nudged her with a reckless grin. Lana smiled only a little, and wrapped her arms around herself._

_"I dunno, Beth…"_

_"Chicken."_

_Lana punched her in the arm. "Don't you __**dare**__ bring that up!"_

_"Hey Lana, Beth." _

_Lana turned on her heel, grinning when she recognized the girl behind her. Sara Palmer._

_Lana had decided a long time ago that Sara was exactly the kind of person she wanted to be when she got older. Pretty, funny, popular. Legs for days and a killer smile. "You're coming too?" she asked, glad to be with a friend and not just Beth._

_"Of course. Wouldn't miss it. It's the fourth of July, silly. There's a family that camps a couple miles from here and you can see their fireworks from the dock." Sara shirked her shirt and Lana was admittedly a little stunned by her own thoughts. 'She looks better without it.' She glanced around hoping she hadn't said that out loud. Lana watched Beth and Sara wade into the water and found herself appraising Sara's backside too…_

_"Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there all night?" Beth called out._

_With a relenting sigh, Lana bit her lip and pulled the nightgown up over her head before gliding into the water herself._

_The boys hadn't come empty handed. They came in a canoe, already naked (Lana found herself looking away), and toting beer. When they passed one to her, she chose not to object—cool older people and all. So she sipped at the bitter, cheap drink when it seemed right, and suddenly she was on a third and a fourth, feeling weightless._

_She managed to evade the boys, however, and that made everything feel much more alright. A few had tried to talk to her, but she ignored them or tried to cut the conversation short. When she looked up again, Sara was swimming toward her._

_"Having fun?" she asked._

_"Yeah, when do the fireworks start?"_

_"Soon, I hope. Probably just waiting until the parents are hammered or something." Sara rolled her eyes. "Are you sure you're having fun though? You're kinda…alone."_

_"Boys are weird." Lana recoiled. She almost reached up to slap a hand over her mouth. Sara must've seen the look on her face because she laughed._

_"I agree. Boys are really weird. Here, come with me. I'll show you the best spot to watch them." Sara started to swim away._

_"Shouldn't we tell the others where we're going?" _

_"No don't worry about it. This is a secret. It's the best spot on the lake, come on."_

_Sara dipped under the water and Lana followed suit, peeking up every now and again to make sure she was going the right way. Finally they stopped and Sara hoisted herself up onto a dock that led on shore. "Come on, this way." _

_Lana clumsily climbed out and followed, covering her breasts so no one would see and stepped carefully to avoid any squeaky planks. On the beach Sara was already fishing something out from behind a rock—a rolled blanket. She shook it out and neatly spread it on the sandy shore before waving Lana over._

_"I prepared earlier today. I thought it was just going to be me, so the blanket's a little small."_

_"That's okay." Lana was perhaps a little too eager on the uptake, but chose to sit rather than lay down. _

_Something whistled from above. An flare of red and white fizzled and hissed with an ear splitting 'BOOM!' afterwards._

_"I told you this was the best spot," Sara laughed._

_"It is!" Lana couldn't help but laugh too and watch the next few set off. She grinned looking back at Sara who was now sitting closer. Lana inched her hand forward until it was touching Sara's, who's fingers laced with hers. Somehow it felt right, her fingers and Sara's together like perfect pieces of a puzzle._

_A purple one blasted through the sky and that was when Sara touched her cheek. Her smile faded a little, but Sara pulled her in close. Lana was suddenly acutely aware of her body and Sara's wet skin, sand in between her toes. She held her breath for a single second before Sara's lips were on hers._

_The clear midnight sky was an explosion of green._


	4. Myrtle Snow: 1

_"The fact remains, dear, that you did set a girl on fire."_

_"Just her ponytail, the hair will grow back," Myrtle said from the passenger seat of her mother's car. "And besides, I only singed an inch."_

_"Where did you even get the lighter, Myrtle?"_

_That was a bit harder to answer so she said nothing. That was her father's advice. The daughter of a social, high society lawyer and a housewife, she knew how and when to be quiet and this was one of those times she elected to plead the fifth. _

_"I suppose it's not important. We should just be thankful they aren't pressing charges. I couldn't bear the shame of it, darling. You know how delicate I am in these situations," her mother fixed an uneven spot in her makeup in the rear view mirror._

_Myrtle rolled her eyes and sunk a bit deeper into the seat. 'Don't shame the family is like the founding principle of this stupid, sexist household,' she mused to herself. _

_They came up to the large white house on the right—an extravagant and glorious place with three stories and four massive white pillars out front. It screamed high class and Myrtle felt her stomach grow sour. It was exactly the kind of place that radiated decadence and expensive taste, nothing humble about it, and under normal circumstances she didn't pay it much attention. Perhaps it was the gardener in the front yard that caused her to truly look at how disillusioning it all was. No one should live in a house so large when there were people starving in Vietnam. Some people had nothing, but Myrtle was repulsed to have it all._

_"Ugh, who's car is __**that**__?! It's ghastly…"_

_A Volkswagen beetle was parked up ahead, by no means in terrible condition, but it did look low-class and out of place in front of the mansion. Myrtle was instantly curious, not because the car was out of place, but because it was the most fascinating and garish shade of orange. A smile threatened the corners of her lips, simply because it had caused her mother ire. She never tired of spiting that woman._

_They rolled up into the driveway where Myrtle was the first to step out with her bag. Her mother hurried inside as if she might be spotted in the yard by the neighbors and be forced to acknowledge the presence of the orange car, but Myrtle watched from the drive as three people got out and approached her specifically._

_"Myrtle Snow?" _

_"Yes?" she asked, slightly aloof as always._

_"Be a dear and show us in. We've got something to discuss with you and your mother."_

_Her brow furrowed. "Is this about Georgine Marshall because if it is, you can speak with my father when he gets home in two hours." Defense came naturally to her. It was in her blood._

_"Yes, I suppose it is, just a little, but more importantly, it's about you. We'd like to offer you a place alongside your sister witches at a prestigious boarding school in New Orleans."_

_Myrtle hesitated. "Come in but be quick about it so the neighbors don't see or my mother will have a fit."_

_She led them inside and flopped her schoolbag down beside the grand staircase. "Mother, there are people here to see us."_

_"Company at this hour?!" Her voice was shrill as if the house hadn't been cleaned. It was a joke, such an utter joke. The wood floors were spotless enough to eat off of and even the rugs could've been picnicked on. Her mother came rushing out from the kitchen as if she were afraid of being caught and singled out as a terrible hostess._

_"Settle down mother, you're embarrassing," Myrtle muttered._

_"Don't mumble, dear, it's low class." Finally the woman looked her guests over—three women who looked middle class at best and one of whom was so plump it seemed indulgent and disgusting, but Myrtle found them fascinating. "We weren't expecting company."_

_"It is of no consequence to us, Mrs. Snow, this will only take a few moments of your time."_

_"Myrtle, dear, why don't you show them into the sitting room while I fetch us all some lemonade."_

_Myrtle did this wordlessly as she'd done many times and allowed the three women to sit on the sofa while she saved the chair for her mother and herself._

_"So. Who are you people?"_

_"We're the Witches Council dear. I'm Amelia Trimble," the oldest of the three women introduced herself first and then gestured to her left, "this is Cassandra Whitby," and then to her right, "and Franny Kent."_

_"We've come to collect you," Ms. Whitby said with a pleasant, southern accent._

_"Here we are," Myrtle's mother arrived with the lemonade and placed the tray down on the coffee table. "Now, who do we have the pleasure of meeting today?"_

_Myrtle explained and then fell quiet for a moment. "What I don't understand is what you meant outside. You're not here about Georgine Marshall, but you're here to take me away…"_

_"Don't put it like that, dear. We're not kidnapping you, the choice is entirely yours," Ms. Kent insisted._

_"But where will you take me?"_

_"Miss Robichaux's Academy." Ms. Whitby spoke again with that enchanting voice of hers. "It's a boarding school for exceptionally gifted young ladies such as yourself."_

_"What do you mean by—" Myrtle couldn't even finish her sentence._

_"An academy? Well she absolutely must go. Myrtle, think of the prestige…"_

_Myrtle rolled her eyes and her head dropped into her hands. "What kind of academy is it? Not that I'm not flattered by the opportunity," she tried to be polite and straightened in her chair. "But what sets it apart from everywhere else?" she asked._

_"Well, it's a school for girls with gifts like yours. Take for instance Georgine Marshall's hair…"_

_"That was an… You can't prove anything," Myrtle felt her temper rising. The principal had her locker searched for a lighter and found nothing he could incriminate her with. _

_"The particulars of how don't concern us, Myrtle. You have a gift. A very exceptional and unusual one. The teachers at Miss Robichaux's Academy could teach you how to use that gift, should you wish."_

_Myrtle watched them suspiciously for a moment. "Are you insane? You think I actually…"_

_"No, dear. We know you did. No one in this room is upset with you." _

_Myrtle chewed on her lip anxiously. "Are you saying I'm…I'm not…"_

_"You're a witch, dear. A member of a coven, and an important one too."_

_"A witch?!" Her mother looked incredulous. "How am I supposed to explain __**that **__to our friends!"_

_"Ugh, mother. You cannot be serious."_

_"No one needs to know a thing, Mrs. Snow. All you tell them is that your daughter has gone to a prestigious boarding school in New Orleans. I'm sure that will suffice to answer their questions."_

_"No one said I'm going anywhere!" Myrtle responded loudly to being talked over. She stood up, afraid of what all this meant. "I don't want to be some Samantha Stephens, how am I supposed to explain such a thing to my future husband—"_

_"That's not what you want though, is it dear?" Ms. Trimble looked at her with kind eyes as if she were peering into her soul. "You want to be in charge of your own life, don't you? Always have. You've never agreed with this lifestyle and you don't think it will agree with you either."_

_"Myrtle, what is she talking about?"_

_Myrtle sat, staring at the woman, unsure of how she knew but suddenly feeling calmer just to have some truth out in the open. "I…I…"_

_"You can be anyone you want to. The door is wide open for you to come and join us. Learn how to control your ability. After that…the choice is yours."_

_"I don't understand!" her mother was shrieking as if she was at gunpoint._

_"Sold."_

_Myrtle Snow simply smiled._


	5. Fiona Goode: 1

_The house was quiet and still until she stumbled in. Her hair was a mess, one of her heels had broken three blocks back, and her dress was rumpled. There was a run in her pantyhose, red lipstick smudged on her lips, but she chucked her purse aside on the chaise and drunkenly reached to turn on the lamp. Instead it hit the floor and shattered._

_"Well, shit…" She sighed and pushed the debris carefully aside with her foot. _

_She wandered into her bedroom and turned on a lamp beside the bed with a little more care, struggled to unzip herself and nearly fell over in the process. Lazily, Fiona flopped backward onto the bed as if it'd help her get her bearings just to sit for a minute._

_"Mommy?" _

_"Jesus Christ, Delia, you scared the shit out of me. Why aren't you sleeping?" She looked at the shy, fair haired little pixy standing in the doorway. She never asked for a baby, never wanted one and still didn't, but here they were six years later and Fiona decided she couldn't part with her. For a short time, she believed in herself. She was going to be a good mother even if it killed her…_

_But it was nights like this, when she had to be the responsible one, that she wanted nothing to do with the little devil that crawled out of her womb._

_"I was, but I had a bad dream and you broke the lamp, Mommy," her eyes were wide and bright as if it were a sin to destroy the lamp._

_"I'll get it in the morning. Go on back to bed."_

_"Can I sleep with you?" Delia asked, playing with the hem of her night gown._

_"You have your own bed, don't you?"_

_"Yes…but there's a monster under there. Please mommy?"_

_"Oh Christ, fine. Get in." She wasn't in the mood to argue. The scrawny little child scrambled up onto the bed and under the covers while Fiona turned the lamp off and shirked her pantyhose, crawling under the blankets in her slip._

_Somewhere in the dark a few hours later, Fiona woke, unable to sleep for some unbeknownst reason. That little heathen of a child was curled up right next to her, snuggled close. It was then that Fiona love her most. Quiet and sleeping, like the dead._

_Being so close she could feel that spark of energy coming off of Delia like the start of a flame. Delia would take her place one day as Supreme unless…_

_It was in these quiet moments that she thought about smothering her own daughter. Snuffing her out. She didn't have the guts to do it when she was awake, but she slept soundly now, so peaceful and comfortable, her sweet baby breath blowing on Fiona's side. She didn't deserve a child like Cordelia. Sweet and terribly obedient. Innocent and pure, and gifted already, but she couldn't think of such things. It robbed her of some youth to bring Delia into this godforsaken world._

_And now here they were. Holed up in apartments and posh looking houses. She had everything she wanted and then some, but this little nip of a girl was not part of the plan. _

_This was a constant war, a fight between the right thing and the wrong thing, putting this girl out of her misery or…_

_No. She could hand her over to someone else. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even a year from now, but she could be free again. All she had to do was drag Cordelia down to New Orleans. Down to Robichaux's. Just leave her on the doorstep with a suitcase and a note and nothing else. She could do that. She was the supreme after all. _

_Yes. She would do that as soon as Cordelia came of age. And it was a thought that comforted her as she drifted back to sleep._


	6. Charles Montgomery: 1

_She wore feathers in her hair. No matter how many times he breathed the ether in, no matter how many times she shrieked at him and barked an order or called him stupid, he would slink to the basement, breathe the addictive aroma in, and think of Nora twelve years earlier. Young, fair-skinned with feathers in her hair and beads decorating the collar of dress in an ornate pattern. She wore bright, unusual colors and that's why she stood out to him._

_The sight of her in that bright shade of teal had never left him for a moment. It always lingered somewhere in the back of his mind, she waited there like a ghost. Eighteen and pretty with the feathers in her hair. Unchaperoned, vulnerable, with just a touch of come hither in her eyes._

_She was still radiant as she'd always been, but that look of mystery and temptation was gone from her eyes and replaced with loathing. _

_He could remember the day too that she told him Thaddeus would be born and he delighted at the prospect of being a father—of having a child, any child at all call him father. The day Thaddeus was born was the happiest day of his life and he couldn't imagine a time when he'd ever been happier, except maybe the day he married Nora._

_But here they were now and Thaddeus was gone and Nora wouldn't look at him, scathing glances or otherwise. They were paupers. He'd been such a fool, such a __**failure**__. He'd given her the world, certainly, but now they were going to lose it all. He had to do something. Anything. Once in a while he could hear her crying upstairs, wailing like a ghost sometimes as she wandered the rooms in the house. Like she was searching for him and didn't know where he'd gone or what to do with herself when she couldn't find him. _

_He was going to make it right._

_He didn't tell her he kept the chest with the jars. The funeral had been arranged, but they buried an empty box._

_He took another deep breath, welcoming the hazy high of the vapors, clumsily threaded a needle and set to work._

_He would win her back, the beautiful girl with eyes like sapphires and feathers in her hair._


	7. Eugene Spalding: 1

_The summer sun was hot and doing no particular kind of justice for the plants or the grass in the yard. It made his job that much more difficult. _

_He knew he should be grateful for the job as the Academy's gardener (one his father had secured for him), and he knew he'd take his father's place someday, but it was hard to be thankful in this sweltering heat…_

_He did love it though, tending to the flowers, grooming the lawn and trimming the hedges. It was a job he took seriously. It wasn't always easy to make the old house as beautiful on the outside as it was on the inside, and he often went through great pains to ensure that it was, but it was a labor of love._

_Eugene stopped and leaned the mower against the iron fence, wiping his brow with the hem of his white shirt when he heard the front door open. He turned to look and saw her as she skipped down each step, glancing behind her with a rueful smile on her face. Marlyse Vanderbilt. She was neither an exceedingly beautiful girl, nor a homely looking one either; a splash of freckles like constellations, deep brown eyes, and dark hair. She wore glasses too, which she pushed up on her nose as she approached._

_He guessed the parts of her that made her remarkable were the parts of her kind and generous personality that shone through her like fireflies in a jar. Her smile was always friendly, her voice always soft. So when she did come to greet him, he couldn't help but stare for a moment and wonder with vague curiosity what she was up to._

_"Hi," she rocked on her heels a little. "It's real hot out, isn't it?"_

_He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself short. He pursed his lips together and nodded, lowering his eyes to the grass._

_"I thought you might like some lemonade, so I brought you a glass." She offered it to him, the chilly drink had caused the glass to sweat in the heat. "The yard looks beautiful," she continued, appraising his work. "I love what you did with the flowers in the flower beds. Daffodils are my favorite."_

_"I thought they'd make it look bright and inviting," he had to calm himself from allowing his chest to swell. "Yellow, you know…so…"_

_"Friendly," she finished. "They look especially beautiful with the tulips."_

_"Thank you," he could feel his ears turning red._

_They stood in awkward silence for a moment before she handed him the glass. "I'll be out to give you a refill in an hour. Okay?"_

_"Sure, sure." He watched her for a moment before an idea struck him. "Marlyse! Wait."_

_She turned, the dark curls of her hair swimming around her shoulders. She almost looked like Judy Garland standing there. "Yes?"_

_"Would…would you like to go to a movie with me on Friday?"_

_Her smile bloomed like the brightest white rose he'd ever seen. "I'd love to," she nodded. Marlyse trotted up each stair and back to the house where it seemed her friends must've been waiting for her return because they broke out into fits of laughter. "I can't believe you just did that!" one shrieked, but no matter how incredulous, Eugene Spalding could not stop smiling._

_Who would've guessed that he of all people—he, whom his classmates called Lurch because he was tall and skinny and knobby looking and usually bad with words—was going on a date. With Marlyse Vanderbilt, no less._

_"Madame isn't paying you to be a layabout in the yard, son," his father's cold words came from above. It spurred him from his reverie as he took up the mower and finished the rest or the lawn in record time._


	8. Misty Day: Headcanon 1

_Eyes shut tight. Hands clamped over her ears. _

_Not here. Not here. No no no…_

_His angry voice was only a faint echo. Had she tuned him out? She hesitantly opened one eye first, then the other, staring into her lap. _

_The sun. The sun! Her heart beat a little faster. She was warm, weightless. The light was blinding and beautiful and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to it. She squinted and began to make out the clearing._

_She stood, light as air, and listened to the birds singing in the trees. A butterfly fluttered close and she touched its wings dusted with yellow pollen and it left a trace on her fingertips before flying away again._

_Everything was alive. Everything was in bloom. It smelled sweet and earthy and warm, and she wanted to touch all of it. _

_She'd spent an eternity, it seemed, in purgatory. Alone. Reviving dead things. Never appreciated for her talent. They called her a freak. She burned. _

_Miss Cordelia never thought those things. She saw all of Misty's potential, encouraged her to try harder, to believe in herself, and for one final moment, she did. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you,' she thought._

_All the bitter years had ended in a blaze of glory, thanks to that one woman. She'd found her tribe—a two-woman tribe. And for a little while, just a little while, she'd been very happy. _

_It was enough. _

_Bees hummed in the trees, hummingbirds danced in the flowers. A fawn emerged from the trees, nibbled some grass, looked up and met her eyes._

_'It's all for you,' the whole place sang—a song just for her._

_Nothing had ever been sweeter._


End file.
